because while some truths lend themselves to equations, others are best described in verse

intranquil

my desperation isn’t quiet
but goes yowling straight through
to the other side of winter with her foot
pressed to the floor;
a seeping solace with every mile north until
she finds the cold that
numbs the hole in her chest,
hope in gaping oblivion;
kicks then
back feckless by the window at street level two
blocks above the flood line, exhaust-
stained plate glass a membrane
between art and the river which could
carry her away.